


On Mount Golgotha

by L-aviateur (Hannah_Kerela)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Curses, Gen, SCP Foundation - Freeform, Supernatural Forces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_Kerela/pseuds/L-aviateur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can call to mind one case in particular that I will never forgive myself for missing." When Holmes gets in over his head, can Watson find a way to save him from something that none of them even understand? Written in response to a prompt on shkinkmeme, posted here new and improved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Mount Golgotha

**Author's Note:**

> Though I've long lost the prompt, this was one of my first kinkmeme responses, requesting that I give [SCP-012](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-012) to Holmes. I like to think of this as the birth of the meme's beloved Dark Watson.

Throughout my engagement to Miss Morstan, I admit to a distinct decline in my involvement in Holmes' cases. While, for the most part, my absence never truly caused any ill effects, I can call to mind one case in particular that I will never forgive myself for missing.  
  
If I had gone with him, perhaps... But I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps you will understand Holmes' predicament better, Dr. Francis, if I explain the case itself, as best as I can piece it together.  
  
*  
  
It was, I believe, three months ago, at the beginning of June, that the case first came to Holmes' attention. Lestrade had asked Holmes' intervention in finding a missing antique enthusiast. The man had disappeared from his home after a long period of seclusion and piano playing, which had stopped abruptly one night. The servants had become concerned at the silence and, upon forcing entry to their masters' room, had found him missing, but no sign of forced entry or a struggle.  
  
Holmes' first order of business in this case was to interrogate the servants of the household. The cook apparently gave him no useful information, but the maid (whom Holmes has in his notes as being named Ellen) had given him substantially more. He took her testimony down verbatim:  
  
"Mr. Eberstrom came home from a trip to Alexandria about two months ago with an entire chest full of artifacts, Mr. Holmes. He said he had found it at a marketplace and that he could hardly wait to explore the artifacts within. He took it to his room - he never lets us handle his collection - and began to go through it. I'll own that I was curious, Mr. Holmes, at first, but we're all used to him secluding himself from us after trips to Africa or Asia. We didn't see him for two or three days, then he summoned Hannah (this, Dr. Francis, was the name of the cook) and told her to begin bringing his meals to him and leaving them outside the door at the regular mealtimes. This was a strange request, and we were all curious because of it, but we didn't question. That night, he started the piano playing, Mr. Holmes - constantly, with barely any pause, always the same beginning of a melody and then deviating into countless horrible variations - oh, they were horrible, Mr. Holmes! We let him continue for about a month, sir, and then, suddenly... The playing stopped, and he stopped collecting the food that Hannah left for him. We had Mark (the name of the gardener, from Holmes' notes) break the lock after a few days, and then went in. He was just gone, Mr. Holmes, with no sign of where he might have been."  
  
Perhaps that should have been Holmes' first warning that this case went far beyond a mere missing man, beyond any "foul play" he might have initially suspected, but I never heard anything from him that indicated that he had a worrisome or dangerous case.   
  
Perhaps that should have been  _my_  first warning.

 

*

 

Holmes' investigation led him quickly to his brother's favorite establishment, the Diogenes Club - Mr. Eberstrom apparently frequented the club as much as does the senior Holmes. The club has numerous private rooms, and one in particular was used by Mr. Eberstrom almost exclusively, having a wide view of the London street below it and a particularly old and valuable painting hanging in it; the painting was one of Mr. Eberstrom's collection, donated to the club.  
  
When Holmes gained access to the club, I doubt surprised him to find the room locked. He picked the lock, of course, and entered - there, he found Mr. Eberstrom and what had so occupied him as to shut himself into his room: a piece of sheet music, clutched in his hands. Holmes pulled the sheet music out of the dead man's hands, unwittingly finding the cause of the man's death there, as well - severe bloodloss from cuts all over his body.   
  
Before Mycroft could catch up with his brother to see about Mr. Eberstrom, Holmes had stashed this sheet music in the pocket of his waistcoat. Upon questioning, Mycroft informed me, Holmes had briskly informed him that he hadn't the faintest idea why Eberstrom would have mutilated himself so, nor did he particularly care.  
  
Perhaps that should have warned us as to the danger ahead.  
  
*  
  
It wasn't until a few weeks later that I heard about all of this. Mrs. Hudson came to my doorstep, declaring that she could not "possibly stand to bear the cacophony emanating from that insufferable man's room" a moment longer, and that I simply had to go talk some sense into them.  
  
Talk sense into Holmes - even then, I knew the job might take a while. I assured Mrs. Hudson that I would be along shortly to help her. I kissed Mary good-bye, assuring her that I would be home soon, and that she needn't worry.  
  
Both of those statements were lies, Doctor.

 

*  
  
I knew before I reached our old rooms what had agitated Mrs. Hudson so. The loud screeching of my friend's violin through the open window (Open, Doctor! He left the window open!) was audible halfway down the street, and I was not the only one to cover my ears in annoyance.  
  
I apologize, doctor, that I can't explain more about getting up to the room. All I really remember is that Mrs. Hudson greeting me briefly and shoving me up the stairs to the rooms I had formerly shared with him.  
  
When I entered the room, Holmes looked up, but didn't stop his playing.  
  
"Ah, Watson!" he said over his violin. "So nice of you to show up. Tell me, what do you make of this?" he asked.  
  
"It's an absolute cacophony, Holmes. You've really upset Mrs. Hudson this time," I said, reaching for the violin, only for him to dance out of the way.  
  
"Not yet, Watson, not yet! I'm on the verge of a breakthrough - this song must be finished!"  
  
It was then that I saw the piece of sheet music that had captivated my friend. I can't really explain why I didn't fall under its spell, I can only imagine that either my own lack of musical inclination or the object's hold on my friend had something to do with it.  
  
Either way, I moved forward to take the sheet music, only for the music to stop and Holmes to bat my hands away with the bow of his violin.  
  
"You will smudge what I have already written!" he said angrily, glowering at me. I stepped back, holding my hands up in momentary surrender, not because he intimidated me (though, perhaps, I should have been scared), but because when he stopped using his hands, I saw what he had done to them.  
  
His fingertips were raw and bleeding, and his palms bore deep cuts and gashes where it looked as if he had driven a knife in on his own. When he seemed to calm, I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist and looking at his hand in more detail. "Holmes!"   
  
"They are minor abrasions, Watson," Holmes growled, yanking his hand back from me and turning his back as he resumed playing. "You see that I am perfectly fine. Return to your fiance," he said briskly, with a note of hostility.  
  
I don't know what kept me from doing just that, if not loyalty to Holmes. I did retreat, but only long enough to inform Mrs. Hudson that she would have to deliver two dinners, rather than one, and that she would need to inform Mary of where I was staying. before returning and taking up my old seat.  
  
Holmes never stopped composing; even when he ate, he hummed and tapped out rhythms. It was as if he was possessed by a demon. I soon learned the cause of the gashes, as well - whenever he believed himself to have completed a line correctly, he would dig the tip of his pen into his own flesh, and write it out in his own blood.  
  
By the time the first night fell, I knew only one thing: that piece of paper had to be destroyed.

 

*  
  
I spent the next two weeks studying my friend, his new habits, and the cases he had recently undertaken, as well as the sheet music, from what I was able to glimpse of it. I will not bore you, doctor, with the details of my investigation, but allow me to assure you that it did not afford me a conclusion.  
  
Holmes has taught me, throughout our relationship, that it is useless to continue to pursue a fruitless path of investigation. Therefore, I let my investigations take a different route - I went to speak to the maid, Miss Ellen.  
  
She was easy to find, fortunately; Mr. Eberstrom's brother had taken her into his service. I found her a most charming individual, which may answer your question as to whether or not this Ellen is the same as the "Nelly" who showed you in: in short, she is, Doctor.  
  
When I met Miss Ellen for the first time, however, she was not the vivacious woman you saw earlier. Mr. Eberstrom's death seemed to have taken a severe toll on her, and she still wore a black armband reverently. However, she was happy to answer my questions.  
  
"So what destroyed Mr. Eberstrom's life... was a piece of sheet music?" Miss Ellen asked incredulously after I explained the situation.  
  
"I believe so, yes. Can you recall anything else about Mr. Eberstrom's actions? Any times he left his room, or stopped playing...?"  
  
"Not that I can recall, no," was the apologetic reply. "Except... Yes, I believe he did stop, once, when the reverend came to speak to Hannah - she fell ill, you see, and we were scared for her life. He didn't come out, but he did get strangely quiet..."  
  
I could feel the beginnings of a connection forming, but I did not yet see the consequences that this one statement would have. We discussed a little more, and I gave her the address of my practice in case she were to think of anything else, then left.  
  
It wasn't until I was almost back to Baker Street that it hit me: The piece itself was titled "On Mount  _Golgotha_." Golgotha is - and I'm sure you know this, doctor, even if not immediately - an alternative name for "Calvary", meaning "Place of the skull."  
  
Looking back, I can define that as the moment where everything began to go right and wrong all at once.  
  
*  
  
I detoured on my way to Baker Street, then, heading to the library and allowing myself to get lost in anything and everything about Calvary or Golgotha that I could find. I probably would have stayed there all night, had Mary not come in with her pupil, Bobby (Robert, really, but no one calls him that except his mother). She came over to me, naturally, and brought me out of my reverie.   
  
"Are you alright, John?" she asked, her hand hovering over my arm.  
  
"Ah, yes, of course," I said. "I'm afraid that Holmes' condition is rather serious, I may be longer than I originally expected. You don't mind?"  
  
"Of course I don't mind, John. Tell Mr. Holmes that I wish him the best," Mary assured me. "And that if he needs any help that I can offer, he's always welcome to ask."  
  
I nodded, assured her that I would be fine, and kissed her good-bye as I got up to leave.   
  
I didn't get so far as the street, however, before I was accosted yet again by another familiar face.   
  
"Mr. Holmes," I greeted. "I was not aware that you--"  
  
"I require you to come with me," the behemoth of a man said.  
  
"Well, I would, sir, but I--"  
  
My protests were cut off as the senior Holmes pulled me into a hansom.   
  
"I have been informed that my  _petit frere_  is not well. What do you know about his condition, Doctor?"  
  
I gulped. This would not be an easy conversation, on anyone's part.  
  
*  
  
"So you're telling me that on Mr. Eberstrom's body, there was a piece of cursed sheet music, which has taken hold of my brother and will eventually kill him if not stopped?" Mycroft asked, without a hint of expression on his face or in his voice except a slightly-raised eyebrow.  
  
"Er, yes, sir. I know it sounds incredulous, but--"  
  
"No, doctor, I know that you are a sensible man, and close to my brother. If this is your assessment of the situation, then until I see anything to indicate otherwise, I will defer to your explanation." I was surprised, to say the least.  
  
I could not contain my curiosity. "If I could ask, Mr. Holmes... How did you know about him? Who told you?"  
  
"Inspector Lestrade, after one of Holmes' boys came to him in a panic."  
  
"Ah," was all I could think to say. Why hadn't  _I_  thought to come to him?

 

"So, doctor," Mr. Holmes continued, pulling me back to the matter at hand. "With this sheet music. Do you have any ideas on how to free my brother from it?"  
  
That, at least, I could answer with an affirmative. Ideas, I had plenty of. It was ideas that would work that I wasn't so sure on.

 

Mr. Holmes and I conversed on the subject for a while longer, finally deciding on a plan of action after three hours, to be set in motion the following night, two hours after sunset.  
  
I went home, after that, to Mary, and assured her that I would not be away much longer, that the end was in sight. However, I think she knew that I was afraid, because we spent that night curled together, merely talking and reading and telling stories - her, about her pupil and myself, about my best friend.   
  
It's hard to describe what I was feeling, Dr. Francis. I have felt it before, of course - it is what any soldier feels when he knows that a large battle is about to begin, one that he knows will be won, but at a great cost.  
  
Two hours before sunset the next day, I went to Mrs. Hudson and sent her to her sister's for the night - I didn't know what would happen, and I couldn't stand to risk her life. When Mr. Holmes arrived, I put on some hot water and we waited.  
  
"Doctor," Mr. Holmes said. "My brother..." he began, then stopped, visibly calming himself before beginning again. "My brother. Are you certain you can do this without injuring him?"  
  
I nodded. "Chloroform is extremely safe, Mr. Holmes, I assure you, and the initial force to restrain him while we drug him shouldn't harm him at all."   
  
Mycroft nodded, displaying that same unsettled look I had seen on my friend - undetectable to most, but I had learned to respond to it. I patted his hand briefly. "We'll get through to him, Mr. Holmes," I assured him. "We won't give up until he's safe - and sane."  
  
The man nodded. "You're right, of course, Doctor. I can see why Sherlock values your friendship, now." He looked visibly relieved.   
  
I flushed, but we said nothing more to one another until the time came to put our plan into action. Mycroft donned a blindfold - we could not be sure, see, if it was touching or seeing the sheet music that had so afflicted my friend, and we wished to be certain, and followed me up the stairs.   
  
Holmes had gotten worse. He was now so absorbed in his composing that his meals had gone untouched and he did not seem to even notice our entrance. I nodded to Mycroft, who stalked up behind his younger brother and seized him from behind.  
  
This got Holmes' attention. The detective squirmed and struggled. "Unhand me, Mycroft! Watson,  _do something_ , you crippled oaf!"  
  
"I shall, Holmes," I said, taking out my supplies.  
  
Up until that moment, I had possessed serious reservations about drugging my friend against his will, but those words, more than anything, cemented the necessity in my mind. You understand, Dr. Francis, that my Holmes would never think anything of the sort, much less verbalize such thoughts. I wet a cloth with the liquid and moved forward, holding it forcibly over his nose and mouth. He glared at me hatefully, trying to twist his head away - which a firm grip in his hair prevented - right up until the moment he lost consciousness. I pressed the bottle and rag into Mr. Holmes' hands and walked to Holmes' desk, picking up a pair of forceps and lighting the burner he kept there. I used the forceps to lift the sheet music off of the table he had been using, and, carefully, held it into the flame.  
  
The curse existed, doctor, and, if nothing else, burning that sheet of paper proved it to me - it resisted the flames for a full minute before it began to burn, with the most miraculous shade of violet as I have ever seen. Once the paper was reduced to ashes, I bundled the entire lot - burner, ashes, forceps and all - into one of Holmes' many metal chests, locking it and making a mental note to have a blacksmith weld the chest shut, and then toss the entire wretched thing into the Thames, where it belonged.  
  
I wish I could say that burning the damned thing ended it, doctor, but you would know that I was lying. When Holmes awoke, he struggled against his brother violently, demanding that we give him paper - he swore that he could recreate the piece from memory. I was obliged to drug him again while Mycroft held him down.

 

This continued for a few days - eventually, we strapped him to his bed - before he seemed to give up, just lying there and staring at the ceiling.  
  
That is, until I walked in with breakfast.  
  
"What, Watson? Do you suppose that I wish to sustain myself, knowing that you have destroyed my chances of being worth anything? You miserable, worthless lump of a man, get out!"   
  
"Holmes, you were obsessive, killing yourself. Eberstrom--"  
  
"Eberstrom could not begin to know the glory of what he held, and it served him right to die for his irreverence!" Holmes snapped. "And you, too,  _handicappé_!"  
  
I do not speak French, but the root word was familiar enough and I am wise enough to know when I am being insulted. I stared in shock at the time, though, unable to process what had just happened.  
  
"Mr. Holmes, you're a right terrible child if you're immature enough to insult Dr. Watson over saving your life," a voice said behind me. I turned, and nearly collapsed. "Ellen!"  
  
Miss Ellen stepped forward. "I came to check on you, Doctor. Miss Morstan said you would be here." She turned her gaze to Holmes, then. "Now, Mr. Holmes, you tell me - how could you  _dare_  say that Mr. Eberstrom did not know the glory of what he beheld? He spent as much time, if not more, on that piece of music as you had within the same amount of time! And neither of you accomplished anything but to terrify those closest to you!"  
  
Holmes has always considered the female race inferior and useless - Miss Ellen proved him summarily wrong, I believe, with this outburst. He was cowed into submission, staring at her in absolute shock.  
  
"Now, Mr. Holmes, my employer lost his life to that horrid piece of paper, and you would have, as well, without a doubt - wake up, Mr. Holmes, and look at what you've done to yourself, if you see the effects it has had on no one else!" With that, she stepped forward, pulling a canteen of water from her apron and dumped it out over his head, much as a mischievous sister might do to a brother that was late to awaken.  
  
Holmes sputtered. I could see the very moment it happened, doctor, that the curse was broken - Holmes' eyes widened, and he looked down at his hands, then at Miss Ellen, then, finally, me.  
  
"Watson..." he said, looking shocked, and clearly appalled at himself for what he'd said.  
  
"It's fine, old fellow, you were not yourself," I assured him. "Miss Ellen, how on Earth--"  
  
"The reverend," Miss Ellen said, "I remembered, had brought a vial of holy water with him, to bless Hannah with. I wondered if, maybe, holy water would hold any power over the spell."  
  
"Brilliant, Miss Ellen!" I exclaimed, taking her hands. "Thank you, really."  
  
"Ah, Watson," Holmes said. "Would you be so kind as to..." he tried to sit up pointedly.  
  
"Of course, Holmes," I replied, undoing the bindings. It was over.  
  
Doctor, you're wondering, I can see, what any of this has to do with you. The simple fact of the matter is that since this entire ordeal, I cannot sleep a full night. I awaken, screaming, without remembering what I had dreamed. Mary is understanding, of course, but my screaming always awakens her, and I cannot ignore something that is harming her, as well.  
  
And, doctor, I shudder to admit this, but I cannot expel the sound of my friend's cacophonous violin playing from my mind. Whenever I lay down to sleep, the sound fills my mind until I cannot bear it.  
  
I believe I may be in need of some intensive treatment, if you can prescribe anything to induce a full night's sleep... Thank you, doctor. Yes, I understand that irritability and minor personality changes might occur. I'm fully prepared to deal with that possibility.


End file.
